


Racing Certainty

by inamac



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Detectives, Fellatio, Hand Job, M/M, Piercings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-02
Updated: 2010-10-02
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:03:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inamac/pseuds/inamac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is 1888, three years before the events of the film.  Blackwood has plans to demonstrate his occult powers – and humiliate Holmes – but first he needs Coward's help...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Racing Certainty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unsettled](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/gifts).



> Written for Livejournal's Blackwood/Coward community fest September 2010 as a gift fic for unsettledink.

#  Racing Certainty

 _1888_

It seems that half the world is reading the sensational reports that Doctor Watson is publishing in _The Strand_ magazine about the adventures that he has shared with Mr Sherlock Holmes.

I do not imagine that the fiction-reading barrow boys (for they _are_ fictions, though with some small kernel of truth) would devour my histories, should I ever publish them, with the same fervour. Nevertheless I am compelled to write. Not only to record my own thoughts and feelings, but to provide some insight into my actions, and some record of my – desires - for those who may come after, in happier and less censorious times.

And if our plans, my Master's plans, come to fruition those times may come sooner than Holmes, and Watson and their kind anticipate.

It was the year after the Golden Jubilee, that celebration of Her Majesty's long reign of which she herself seemed weary. The events of that turbulent year had been reflected by a considerable amount of work, or, as Blackwood put it, 'interference' from Holmes, who had been building up quite a reputation as a private investigator of matters that were properly none of his business. The way he had exposed Baron Maupertuis, disposed of the problem of the Reigate Squires, destroyed the careful structure of the Paradol Chamber, and finally averted the possibility of a scandal in Bohemia, had set back the work of the Society to which I had the honour to belong by a considerable amount.

Fortunately, as Home Secretary, I had some command of the police forces and the ability to prevent Holmes from poking his famously aquiline nose into the proper business of government. Lestrade, while not 'one of us', had taken on the task of thwarting Holmes' ambition with a fervour that matched Blackwood's. And, as a result of my mobilising the police service to make a timely intervention in the matter of the assassination attempt at the Houses of Parliament I had found myself rewarded with the position of Master of the Queen's Buckhounds.

Thus it was that I found myself sitting in an open landau in the shadow of the main stand of Ascot Racecourse awaiting the start of the Royal Drive on the day of the Gold Cup meeting. Others may think that such titles are merely honorary but this one carries with it the duty of making the arrangements for the Royal race meeting. And the responsibility for ensuring that all goes smoothly.

It was not a task that I would normally have relished, but Henry, that is, Lord Blackwood, had responded to my assumption of the additional onerous duties with interest and support. His own interest in the Sport of Kings (and Queens – though since the death of the Prince Consort the 'Widow of Windsor' had closed her studs and passed much of the task of supporting the sport to her son) was mostly academic, so some of our acquaintance had expressed surprise at his insistence on being involved.

While we waited in the bright June sunshine I cast my mind back to the day he had explained the reason for that involvement. If all went well today he would gain an unequalled reputation as a proponent of the Hidden Arts, and the Order would gain the support of a new generation of the rich and influential.

 _Three Months Earlier – 15 Collingham Gardens, London_

It was late evening, and I had just returned to my London house after the presentation to Her Majesty. As I set my document case containing the insignia and Order of Appointment as Master of Buckhounds on the desk Blackwood lifted his glass in a silent toast from his seat on the sofa where he had been waiting for me.

"I see you accepted the honour," he said.

I moved to the table where the unlocked tantalus stood and poured myself a glass of scotch. Judging from the level in the decanter the one he was cradling was not his first. I had some catching up to do. "Yes," I said, throwing back the liquor. "Though I'm damned if I understand why you were so anxious for me to accept it."

"Because," he said, "It puts you in a unique position to do the Order a service."

I set the glass down and started to undo my tie. It had been a long day and I had been looking forward to returning here to do Henry a service. I didn't see any reason to change my plans. He could explain himself while I prepared. I said as much.

He smiled, and I caught a glimpse of the sharp edge of the crooked tooth that was the legacy of the first time he and Holmes had crossed.

"A reputation for prediction," he said, steepling his long fingers and looking at me speculatively over them, " _Accurate_ prediction, is a valuable tool both for a magician and a politician. And it is a reputation easily acquired."

For a moment I was so lost in the depth of his gaze that I lost track of his words. I removed my collar studs and set the starched circlet down beside the tantalus. The tiny 'click' as it met the wood was all the response he needed to continue.

"Do you think," he asked, "that my predicting the winner of every race on the day of the Gold Cup meeting would convince our members of my powers?"

My fingers paused in the task of unbuttoning my waistcoat, but I managed to stop any more obvious betrayal of my astonishment. His lessons on reserve were having some effect. Nevertheless I did exclaim, rather more emotionally than I should, "You can do that?"

"Anyone could do it. In the right circumstances. And you, my dear Coward, are in a position to manufacture exactly the right circumstances." He reached out to run one of those long fingers down my cheek to pause at the edge of my mouth. "I asked whether it is worth doing to impress the Order."

I shivered. "It would impress me," I assured him.

"As you impress me."

I wasn't entirely sure whether he was referring to my intelligence, or the fact that his touch had made my arousal within my newly-unbuttoned trousers, all but unbearable. It seemed that it was both as his hand continued its descent, to be joined by its fellow in completing the task I had begin and stripping the last of my garments from me. For a moment he contemplated the gold ring that pierced my member before completing his task by untying the flat ribbon threaded through it binding it against my thigh.

I sprang into his hand, eager as ever for his touch, and for a while we both forgot the duties of the day in mutual pleasure.

Henry's habit of explaining the intricacies of his plans to me while buggering me through the mattress (or, in this case, over the arm of the sofa) has improved my ability to concentrate on the essentials. Though there are parts of the Metropolitan Police Act which we drafted together that I cannot now read without getting hard.

On this occasion his strokes were the punctuation to an explanation of one of the oldest of racecourse scams. Before the first race one approached a number of gentlemen, say fifty, with a prediction of the winner of the race – each time one named a different horse – if there were five runners in the race then ten of the people would believe that you had made an accurate prediction – those ten would be willing to bet against your prediction in the next race – again, a few would win – and so on. At the end of the meeting there would be one person convinced of your power of prediction – and he might convince others.

"The secret," Henry grunted, close to completion now, "is to select the right people, and to conceal your personal involvement from the others."

"It seems to me..." I groaned as his slickness began to fill me, "That you would need to start by selecting almost everyone at the meeting!"

"And that," he withdrew, and reached his hand round my still-bucking hip to squeeze my own completion from me, "is why it is essential that you have some influence over which horses will be running, and in which races. We do not want too large a field. And it would be helpful if one 'prediction' could refer to several horses – at least in the earlier races."

I understood now why he had been so pleased about my new appointment – in fact I began to suspect that he had somehow engineered it. I turned into his embrace as he finally released me and we both sank into the comfort of the sofa. Not quite sated, but content to bask for a while in each others closeness. This was what I loved most about him, his ability to make me relax and forget, for a while, the cares and responsibilities of an English gentleman.

"So tell me," I said, beginning to toy with the buttons of his waistcoat (save for his unfastened trousers he was still fully clad, and while I loved the feel of the silk brocade against my skin, I preferred the warmth of his flesh), "how you intend to work this 'magic'".

I felt his smile against my hair. He guided my hand down to his crotch and took over the task of freeing himself from waistcoat, shirt and collar.

He answered with what appeared to be inconsequentiality. "Have you ever visited a fortune teller?"

"I... yes. At a fairground once. Just for a lark." I began the slow strokes that he'd taught me would bring him off. I was only half-concentrating on his reply.

"And were her predictions correct? In any respect? _Harder_."

My fingers increased their grip on his command as I cast my mind back. "She told me that I'd meet a tall, dark man who would influence my life. And here you are."

He jerked in my hand and came, painting my fingers with his spunk. I released him and brought my right hand to my lips to lap at it, savouring his scent more than the taste.

"She could have been more specific," he said.

"Fortune tellers never are."

"Exactly." He was grinning outright now. "People are far more impressed if they feel that they have interpreted an obscure prediction correctly than if you just give them a cold fact. If you wish to know the winner of the first race at Ascot, look for a horse with something white about him."

"You mean Silver Mist? That's the only grey entered."

"And unlikely to win – but if he does, the prediction holds good. As it does for any horse with a white face. A really inventive punter could be convinced that one white foot would meet the criteria for the prediction, with no need for cheating or fixing on my part. The trick is to make the prediction match all the runners."

I swear that I was trying to concentrate on his words, but the movement of his lips was far more seductive than anything he said. I rested my cheek on his naked chest and began to tongue at a nipple. His fingers moved through my hair. Gripped hard. He was not going to allow me it ignore this.

"Why?" I asked. "Four or five horses should be enough."

"I want the odds of that prediction for the first race being correct increased to one hundred percent," he said. "So you, my dear Master of Buckhounds, will ensure that Lord Whitehurst has a runner in the first, and that John Michaels, who trains at the White House in Newmarket, are also encouraged to make entries."

I looked up at him, impressed. "This isn't just about convincing the members of the Order about your powers," I said. "You have other plans."

"Oh yes. I always have other plans."

He kissed me, and we spoke no more of business.

 

 _June 1888 – Ascot Racecourse_

When the first carriage turned onto the course there was a great cheer from the crowd which almost drowned the fanfare from the ceremonial mounted escort. Sunlight flashed on the long trumpets and on the gold embroidered Royal Arms of their banners, unsettling the horses drawing our own vehicle so that it lurched as it passed out of the road and onto the track.

I reached for support, and my hand fell on Blackwood's knee. It did not distract him. His eyes were on the crowd lining the rails, every eye drawn to the Royal party.

Every eye, that is, save his.

He placed his hand over mine, to prevent my withdrawal and spoke very quietly, not much above a whisper.

"Holmes is here."

I glanced at the crowds lining the rails, waving as the carriages went by. The elegant ladies, parasols deployed to protect delicate white skin, gentlemen in grey morning suits - I recognised many of the faces, but not that of Holmes.

Had this been the Derby meeting rather than Royal Ascot I might have expected to see him among the pugilists, the mountebanks, shills and fortune-tellers who people the penny-booths on the Heath, but here there was no such rabble. It was only when Blackwood gestured discretely to the grooms and trainer's lads craning to get a glimpse of the passing parade from the roof of the stables where their charges were quartered that I noticed one a little apart from the rest.

"Here in disguise," I said. "Not the action of an honest man. Does he expect some criminal activity at the meeting?"

Blackwood gave an ironic smile. "He expects me to have some hand in influencing the outcome of the races," he explained.

"Why...?"

"Because I took to opportunity to send Dr Watson a letter giving an indication of the winner of every race on the card today."

I knew from our earlier conversation that what he proposed was possible with a gullible man – but Watson – and especially Holmes, were not gullible. "This is the 'other plan' you spoke of? Holmes will recognise the trick. He could reveal it and ruin all your plans."

"We will see." Was his calm response.

I gave a last look at the roof of the stables as the landau took the first corner on the course. There was no longer any sign of the watcher. The horses were moving at a steady trot now, not as fast as the thoroughbreds would cover the two miles of track later in the day. The cheering of the crowd was left behind and, in the carriage ahead of us the Prince ceased waving in acknowledgement and turned to speak with his companion. I would have done the same but Blackwood was still alert, watching the few spectators by the rail along this back straight of the course. Most were course officials, groundsmen and grooms taking the opportunity to glimpse the procession before returning to their duties. One or two were policemen, providing discrete security, though I had not expected any attack on the Royal party out here.

I voiced my thought and he nodded. "So we have some minutes to ourselves," he said. "And I appear to have dropped my card-case."

I glanced down into the well of the carriage to see the gleam of the silver case. It would be the work of a moment to bend and retrieve it, but I realised that he had deliberately dropped it for a purpose. His hand was still holding mine immobile against his knee, and he did not release it as I slipped from my seat to kneel before him. Instead he moved it to the fastening of his trousers.  
Protest would have wasted time and drawn attention. And the thought of doing this excited me as much as it was obviously exciting him. I freed his member and took it into my mouth, probing with my tongue at his foreskin just as he liked.

The motion of the carriage helped, rocking us both to arousal.

We finished just as the carriage turned the final corner and the sound of the crowd increased. I readjusted our clothing and was concentrating on the real task of looking for the card case on the floor of the carriage to return it to him.

So I was ill prepared for the knife thrown from somewhere to our right that stuck, quivering, in the grey leather upholstery only inches from Blackwood's right hand.

"Now that," he said, jerking it free and slipping it casually into the top of his boot, "is just stupid."

It had all happened so fast, and my companion had dealt with it so smoothly that I doubt anyone in the crowd noticed. It took a moment for me to recover. "Did you see who threw it?" I asked.

"No. But I didn't need to. I was expecting it."

"Who would want to attack us?" I was spluttering now, though he was still uncannily calm and unaffected by so close a brush with anarchy.

"My dear Nicholas, you are the Home Secretary. It might be easier to find someone who did not want to attack you."

"But..." I took a deep calming breath, the reminder of my status had been timely. "Wait. You expected this?"

"To be honest I had not expected such a murderous attack. That was the result of a fit of anger I think. One must allow the ladies some outlet for their emotions. Mrs Godfrey Norton must be more concerned for the welfare of her racehorse than I anticipated."

"You think a woman threw that knife? Who... ?" I looked out at the crowd, but it was impossible to identify any individual who might have thrown that knife.

"The public knows – or knew - her as the celebrated actress and adventuress Miss Irene Adler. She is recently married, and she has employed Mr Holmes to protect the horse that she has running in the Gold Cup. It seems that she is not content to allow her agent to carry out his commission but has taken matters into her own hands."

I recalled the newspaper reports of Miss Adler's career. She was renowned as a beautiful woman, and skilled in shooting, archery and fencing. Apparently her skill with a blade and a missile was not confined to the sporting arena. She had chosen her moment well and if anyone had seen her it was doubtful that he would believe the evidence of his own eyes. I made a mental note to speak with the police commander to ensure that his men did not make assumptions in future about the innocence of the fair sex. Meanwhile the procession had turned back into the shelter of the stands and we had a few more moments of privacy.

"Why would she attack you though?"

"It is possible that the note I sent to Watson might have been interpreted as a threat to certain fancied horses. Holmes has an old association with the former Miss Adler, and would have made her aware of any threat to her property." He smiled, "Holmes has a melodramatic turn of mind. One day it will be the end of him."

"But, but," I blustered, confused by the turn of events, "You weren't planning to interfere with any of the horses."

The carriage had halted, and Blackwood swung open the door and jumped to the ground, an expression of determination on his face. "No," he said, "But Holmes must have other evidence than my note that someone plans a personal attack. The curse of having a reputation is that the incompetent plots of others are often misattributed. I confess that I would have expected better of both Holmes and Irene. Any plot of mine would never be so easily detected. But if they are unprepared to make a real investigation I must seek out the culprit myself."

"Can I help?" I asked.

He shook his head. "You have other duties. And it is best that you disassociate yourself from me as much as possible at present. Go to the Royal Enclosure and make yourself visible."

Before I could make any further protest he had turned from the carriage and was striding off in the direction of the stables.

The next hour passed in a blur for me. I did the social round as if propelled by clockwork. Smile, shake hands, make some comment on the going, or the runners, or the ladies dresses, or their hats, move on to the next party, smile, shake hands... And all the while I wondered what Henry was doing.

I had my answer when the runners for the Gold Cup went down to the parade ring.

The course was colourful with the bright silks of the jockeys, the ribbon and lace of the ladies hats, the gleam of the coats of the horses, a moving tapestry of bay and brown, chestnut and black, grey and dun set against the bright green of the cropped grass. As this was the principal race, not only of the day but of the whole meeting, the mounted trumpeters were again on hand, ready to herald the entrance of the runners onto the course and adding the bright red and gold of their uniforms to the scene. Each horse had its own little circle of attendants; jockey, trainer, owners and their wives (or husbands). The Prince was there, speaking expansively about the chances of his colt, though his trainer looked less confident. As her Majesty's representative I had a duty to ensure that all was well, and I took full advantage of that position to move from group to group, mouthing the usual platitudes, but my attention was all for the woman that Blackwood had pointed out earlier.

At last the signal was given for the jockeys to mount and for the horses to be led out onto the course. Mrs Norton's horse was just passing the gate when I saw one of the trumpeters lift his instrument to his lips and wondered briefly whether the blast of sound would frighten the horses. But the sound that sent the animal into a half-rear was not the blast of a horn but the sharp crack of a pistol shot. The instrument was sent flying from the man's hand with a high metallic ringing sound – the shot had hit it. Thankful that the murderous attempt on the horse had been thwarted I started forward, meaning to congratulate the rider for his quick action, but with a shocked look over his shoulder he put spur to his mount and took off at a gallop up the track.

His fellows were watching in consternation. Their own mounts milled around in the entrance, foiling the chance of pursuit – until a tall figure vaulted over the rail, hauled a man bodily from his saddle and vaulted aboard in one swift movement.

Blackwood.

The animal gave a half-rear before he had it under control and galloping for the running rail.

He leapt it almost from a standstill, demonstrating the superb horsemanship that had won him his reputation in the hunting field.

I had no chance to watch the chase, being occupied in calming the spectators and assuring everyone that the authorities would shortly have everything under control. But I did not doubt the outcome. Henry is a superb rider over timber and I learned later, both from the watchers and by his own less sensational account, that he had run his quarry to ground by cutting across the centre of the course. The boy had run with no clear plan of escape and Henry's hand on his horse's bridle and his pistol at his chest had put an end to all fight.

The pistol, it transpired, was the same one that deflected the attempt to use the trumpet to blow a poisoned dart at the Norton horse. The missile was found, much later, by Holmes scouring the scene of the crime that he had been employed to investigate, and so singularly failed to prevent. I doubt that Watson's account of the matter will appear in print.

 

 _Later that evening_

 

"My concern", said Henry, as we celebrated _Timothy_ 's win, "was that Holmes was spending so much time dogging my footsteps that I might be unable to prevent the real attempt on the horse by the Honourable (he gave the title an ironic stress) Martin Croston."

"Was he one of those to whom you had made a prediction?" I managed coherence, although he had me pinned to the bed by his weight and the fulcrum of his cock.

"Ironically no. He had played rather heavily on his own account, and like too many young fools, had been seduced from the path of common sense by a pretty face." He punctuated his speech with slow, even strokes, filling and denying me so that I hung on the edge of arousal.

"Mrs... Mrs Norton is... uncommonly pretty," I agreed, risking his displeasure though he knew my admiration of the fair sex was purely aesthetic.

He snorted, and this time thrust with intent. "I meant the horse," he said.

I came hard. Partly from his thrust against that spot that brings so much pleasure in the act, and partly with laughter.

***

And the outcome of the plot?

At the next meeting of the Order Henry Blackwood stepped from the shadow of his unacknowledged father for the first time and took up the sacrificial knife as of right.

It was the blade with which Irene Norton had made the attempt to end his life.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> There is an RPS coda to this story (based around the filming of the Ascot scenes). See separate entry.
> 
> Footnotes:
> 
> The cases referenced in Paragraph 3 are those mentioned in Arthur Conan Doyle's original Sherlock Holmes stories as having taken place prior to 1888, though (with the exception of _A Scandal in Bohemia_ are not part of Doyle's original canon.
> 
> The assassination attempt on Queen Victoria in 1887 was a plot by Irish dissidents to blow up the Houses of Parliament.
> 
> The Master of the Royal Buckhounds is largely a courtesy title, but does carry the responsibility of arranging the Ascot meeting on behalf of the Monarch. At this time the post was actually held by George Coventry 9th Earl of Coventry.
> 
> Each day of the Royal Ascot meeting begins with the Royal Procession - the arrival of The Queen and the Royal party in horse-drawn landaus, which parade along the track in front of the race- goers. The Royal Procession dates back to the 1820s and the reign of King George IV, at which time it was referred to as the Royal Parade or Royal Drive. I have based the details of the 1888 meeting on a picture showing the carriage of the Prince of Wales entering the course in 1891.
> 
> There is no contemporary evidence that Prince Albert (or any other Victorian gentleman) had the piercing that bears his name – or used it for the purpose usually described. But I couldn't resist...
> 
> The Metropolitan Police Act 1887 does exist.
> 
> I have to thank the Smith Watkins company website for more information that I could reasonably need about fanfare trumpets.
> 
> Mrs Irene Norton (nee Adler) is based on the character in _A Scandal in Bohemia_ and not the forward hussy of the movie.
> 
>  _Timothy_ did win the Gold Cup in 1888. He was a chestnut (with no white about him – though 'Herb Timothy' has white(ish) seed heads... – Blackwood is right, in ingenious mind can twist anything.


End file.
